There is nothing to see, and yet—a ghost lingers. A handsome young man in fine attire, bearing no malice, drifting silently between the worlds. I see him, though you cannot. His gaze falls upon you with a tender awe—admiring, sorrowful, and tinged with jealousy that life continues without him.

Once, he loved a lady. He lost her, and now he wanders, unable to find his way back to her embrace. He is here, and there, and everywhere—a soft luminescence that clings to the hearts of the romantic and the doomed alike. Still, he searches for his beloved.

I tell him she no longer walks among the living, and he weeps, for he does not know where else to look. He is trapped in his own glass box of memory, with nowhere to go.

Beautiful young souls—he drifts above you, circling in a spectral dance. A shadowplay. Raise your hands and feel his trembling light, for this is All Hallows’ Eve, and he weeps.